The Christmases He Left Behind

This year, Christmas will feel different.

Not because I love it any less. If anything, I think I may love it even more because of the memories attached to it.

My dad died on August 3, 2026—on my 38th birthday.

There are certain dates you expect to remember for the rest of your life. Your birthday is supposed to be one of them. You expect to remember the celebrations, the people who called, the cake, the presents, the little moments that made that particular year special.

I never expected my birthday to become the day I would remember losing my dad.

Grief is strange that way. It doesn't simply take someone away. It changes the meaning of things you thought you understood.

And for me, Christmas is going to be one of those things.

I've spent years collecting Christmas ornaments. I've filled trees with blown glass, searched for unusual pieces, traveled to Christmas shops, and carefully packed away decorations to bring them out again the following year.

But when I think about Christmas, I don't just think about ornaments.

I think about Dad.

My dad was absolutely terrible at keeping Christmas presents a secret.

He would buy something for us and be so excited that he couldn't help himself. He was proud that he had found something we wanted. Proud that he could afford to buy it for us. And, apparently, equally proud that he had managed to keep it hidden for approximately five minutes.

He wouldn't necessarily come right out and tell us what we were getting.

Instead, there would be hints.

Maybe a comment about something he had bought.

Maybe a suspicious smile.

Maybe he'd casually mention that he "found something really good" while pretending it wasn't for us.

But there was one Christmas when the secret was worth keeping.

Christmas 2005.

That was the year Dad gave Kevin and me our favorite Christmas gift of all time.

A puppy.

We named him Sparky.

Sparky wasn't the kind of Christmas present you eventually outgrew or packed away in a box after the holidays. He became part of our family.

He spent 17 years with us.

Seventeen years of birthdays, Christmases, ordinary days, bad days, good days, and everything in between.

Dad used to say Sparky was "the gift that kept on giving."

He was right.

Looking back now, that may have been the greatest gift Dad ever gave us—not because Sparky was a puppy, but because Dad gave us 17 years of memories we wouldn't have had otherwise.

And now, years later, I find myself thinking about that Christmas differently.

Dad isn't here anymore.

Sparky isn't here anymore.

But somehow, that Christmas is still here.

Frozen in time.

A puppy under the Christmas tree.

Two brothers getting the surprise of their lives.

And a dad who had given his kids something that would become part of their lives for the next 17 years.

That's the kind of Christmas gift you never forget.

There was another Christmas memory that will probably make me laugh forever, although I'm sure Dad wasn't laughing quite as much at the time.

He was opening a box when somehow a staple went straight through his finger.

Of course, this wasn't part of the Christmas festivities I had planned on remembering.

But somehow those are often the memories that stick.

I don't remember every detail of what was said, but I remember the story.

And that's the thing about Christmas memories.

They aren't always the big, picture-perfect moments.

Sometimes they're a dad accidentally stabbing his finger with a staple while opening a box.

Sometimes they're the presents you weren't supposed to know about.

Sometimes they're the little traditions you didn't realize were traditions until they were gone.

One of my favorite Christmas traditions was traveling to Cockeysville, Maryland, to visit Valley View Farms.

Every year, I loved going into their Christmas shop.

There was something about walking through a place completely devoted to Christmas that made the season feel even more magical. The lights, the decorations, the trees, the ornaments—it was the kind of place where I could spend far more time than anyone probably thought was necessary.

And Dad was part of those memories too.

Christmas has always been about more than decorating a tree for me.

It's about the people who helped make Christmas what it was.

And Dad had his own Christmas preferences.

Give him a throw blanket or a pair of socks, and he was happy.

It didn't have to be elaborate. He appreciated the simple things.

There's something strangely comforting about remembering that now.

Because grief has a way of making ordinary things feel extraordinary.

A throw blanket isn't just a throw blanket anymore.

A pair of socks isn't just a pair of socks.

A trip to a Christmas shop isn't just a trip to a Christmas shop.

And a Christmas present isn't just a Christmas present.

They're pieces of a life.

Pieces of a person.

Pieces of a Christmas that I didn't know I would someday miss.

This will be my first Christmas without Dad.

I know there will be moments when I walk into a Christmas shop and see something I know he would have liked.

I'll probably see a pair of socks and think of him.

I'll see a blanket and think, Dad would like that.

And when Christmas morning comes, there will be one less person sitting there.

One less person to surprise.

One less person to accidentally give away the surprises.

One less voice in the house.

But I don't want grief to erase the joy he brought to Christmas.

I want to remember the excitement in the things he gave us.

The terrible secret-keeping.

The puppy.

The staple through his finger.

The trips to Valley View Farms.

The blankets and socks.

The little moments that didn't seem particularly important at the time.

Because those are the things I have now.

And maybe that's one of the lessons grief teaches us.

We don't get to keep people forever.

But we do get to keep the memories.

And sometimes, those memories are hidden inside the simplest things.

A Christmas ornament.

A box.

A blanket.

A pair of socks.

A Christmas shop in Cockeysville.

A puppy named Sparky.

A story we've told a hundred times.

And a dad who just couldn't wait until Christmas morning to tell his kids what he bought them.

This Christmas, I'll decorate my tree.

I'll look at the ornaments.

I'll remember.

And I'll probably miss him more than I can put into words.

But I'll also smile.

Because Christmas was something he helped make special.

And no matter how much time passes, he'll always be part of my Christmases.